


Dry this Awful Flood

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Prompt fills and Random Plot Bunnies. [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by homosociallyyours. She wanted Sherstrade or Johncroft with either tongues or jealousy....</p><p>Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for because you might get everything... and it might not be exactly what you were expecting :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry this Awful Flood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosociallyyours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/gifts).



> Thanks to Provocatrixxx for helping wrangle tenses again. All mistakes are of course my own

Honestly, it snuck up on John. They spent a lot of time together, but they never really got past that first conversation at Angelo’s. As far as conversations about relationships went anyway. John’s brief affair with Sarah settled into a sort-of-friendship that wasn’t actually centered around Sherlock. He worked when they called him in for locum, and watched telly with Mrs. Hudson when they didn’t.

That Lestrade was around the flat more often than strictly necessary should have tipped John off. It is easy to overlook, after all Sherlock helped out with an awful lot with cases. There wasn’t anything to see at crime scenes; Sherlock ran roughshod over Lestrade, ignored any and all attempts to get him to follow proper procedures, focused on finding the solution to the puzzle. Left Lestrade to sort out the details and put together something that would hold up in court.

Not every case involved Lestrade. Dimmock was a nice enough bloke. Sherlock seemed to have a more difficult time with Dimmock than Lestrade - John chalked it up to Sherlock’s aspergers, he didn’t cope well with changes in his routine.

And John recognized a distinct pattern of behaviour; Sherlock without a case was a monster, a giant fire-breathing dragon-toddler in a strop, Sherlock on a case burned through the night until it was solved. There are tiny respites, moments that John can sometimes drag out into hours or an entire afternoon with careful praise and takeaway.

And there are the moments after Lestrade visits. These don’t fit the rest of the pattern, and at first John doesn’t even notice them. So often they happen while he is at the surgery, or evenings when he managed to find a woman that will let him take her to dinner. They crept slowly into John’s awareness, and look almost like Sherlock-after-a-case. John chalked it up to Lestrade bringing Sherlock a puzzle, maybe cold cases.

He wasn’t trying to be quiet as he climbed the stairs, but it was late, and he didn’t want to wake Mrs. Hudson. He stood, probably longer than he needed to, his brain refused to process what he saw into something coherent, in the doorway. John certainly didn’t mean to watch, didn’t mean to engrave the sight of Greg’s prick sliding completely into Sherlock into his mind. Greg’s face is pressed into Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock’s head is dropped down on the far side, curled together in Sherlock’s chair. Both men so lost in each other they don’t notice John in the door, and he is definitely watching now; the slide of Greg’s cock, slow full thrusts from head to root.

John wet his lips, because he loves that… the slide and the feel of everything. It is fucking gorgeous, the roll of their baritones, snatches of words and praises that work their way across to John’s ears. “God… you feel so good…  _Fuck_ … more… there, god there.”

Sherlock’s head is thrown back, his body arched against the grip of Greg’s fingers. John steps back, presses himself against the wall of the landing, closes his eyes tight but can’t stop the sound that embeds itself in his mind. A perfect symphony of their pleasure.

John swallows his loneliness and turns, quiet feet on the stairs up to his room.

Strictly speaking he wasn’t hiding the next morning… he just stayed in bed longer than usual in the hopes that Sherlock would leave. Futile of course, nothing short of a case would send the detective out of the flat, not when there are ears in the fridge and John to make tea.

Sherlock is still, hovering over his microscope on the kitchen table when John comes down. John lets himself think maybe, possibly he doesn’t know, possibly John didn’t have to say anything. They can go along like nothing had changed. He checks the kettle before he fills it, dumped out the dregs of yesterdays water and swirled fresh in just to be sure.

When he turns back Sherlock drops the full force of his regard onto John. He’s expectant, knows that John knows and is waiting for him to make the first declaration.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“No….” It is drawn out, clipped off at the end, as though Sherlock had forgotten he was speaking and shut down his vocal cords.

“You said married to your work.”

“Hmm… A polite fiction, the truth… ‘I’m involved in a long-term sex-with-benefits arrangement with the handsome Detective Inspector you met earlier this evening. Strictly on the hush-hush, his wife…’ well even I know that is a bit much for anyone to take in over pasta primavera.”

There is something in the last syllable that rolls over John, pulls the memory of last night into his mind. He turns away, swallows and licks his lips. “I thought you didn’t go in for adultery, the things you say about Anderson and Donovan.”

Sherlock scoffs at that. “Anderson is the worst kind of idiot. He thinks what he is doing is somehow unique, and without consequence. Donovan should know better, she’s not stupid. Barely intolerable, if she gave up her self-flagellation with Anderson’s cock she might actually make something of herself. Technically Lestrade is cheating on me with his wife… He’s been fucking me longer than her. And she knew going in, which is why she is always running off with yoga instructors.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

 

“You saw… it is. I’m not wired to,” Sherlock rolls his wrist in a gesture that conveys carrying on relationships in a typical way. “Lestrade and I have a mutually beneficial arrangement and it is none of anyone else’s business.”

“Where does that leave me then?”

“What do you have to do with it?” Sherlock looks genuinely confused. “You said it was fine.”

“Sherlock…” John wiped his hand over his face, “Everyone thinks we’re shagging, am I just a beard? Covering up your… whatever it is you and Lestrade are doing? You never tell people we aren’t shagging.”

“Because I am not ashamed of the idea we might be. Would you like to fuck me John? Or would you rather I ask Lestrade to fuck you?”

John freezes, looks away as the kettle clicks off. He watches as water turns to tea, pulls the bag from the water with his bare fingers and tosses it into the sink. John leaves the room without any further comments from Sherlock. The corner of his eye telling him that Sherlock has gone back to his microscope.

There is silence, days and days of silence. John’s tongue is heavy, he’s afraid to speak to anyone. Afraid that he will blurt out his desire.  _God, please, yes_. John covers a three day sick leave at the surgery, speaks in slow careful snippets about colds and bunions.

It says something about him that he is no longer surprised at the sight of a sleek black car matching his pace. Mycroft has, at least, dropped the evil genius act. He has summoned John to civilized tea shops, quiet corners of restaurants, ordered food that John ate.

“He’s concerned… He thinks perhaps you will hold it over him.”

“He’s got more than enough blackmail material on me. I’m not looking to… I wouldn’t do that.” John stabs at his salad. Mycroft must be on a diet again.

“The cases are important to him, you understand that I can’t be responsible if… it would be best if Sherlock heard from you that this isn’t a problem.” Mycroft watches the fork descend from John’s lips. Runs his own tongue between his teeth.

“So why am I talking to you then?”

“He made you an offer, you haven’t replied.” Mycroft’s tongue pokes out from between his lips again, tasting the air as John’s knuckles go white around his fork, as John swallows down a groan. “My brother and I share some rather uncommon notions about such matters. He gave me the impression he was rather crass. I’ve been told I have a softer touch.” The barest touch of Mycroft’s shoe against John’s ankle accompanied his words.

“Sherlock can’t just offer Lestrade up like that.”

“Ah.” Cool, contained and without a hint of regret. Mycroft folds back away from John. “I think you will find that Detective Inspector Lestrade is more than willing to be… accommodating where my brother is concerned.” The hint of smile that ghosts over Mycroft’s face is wistful, his gaze far away. The movement of his shoulders, almost a shudder that John can’t help but sympathize with.

“Alright, fine. Tell him he’s won.”

  
Mycroft’s smile makes John shudder in an entirely different way, and he looks down to finish his salad.


End file.
